Origin Story
In the beginning, there was no light, only darkness. No joy, only fear. No hope, only despair. No peace, only oblivion. The residents of the city were scarce and the few that remained had little life to offer to the desolate wasteland. Abandoned buildings crumbled to nothing more than rubble, and trash littered the barren sidewalks. There was little left Los Angeles had to offer its inhabitants except the cruel government that remained to bar the population from experiencing the outside world. There was nothing more valuable to the future and recovery of the once-great metropolitan than the industry of science. With viruses spreading through the sewers and infecting civilians from below, the usage of science and technology was vital to the recovery of the city and its citizens. Only one such corporation existed: Evox Industries, the science and innovation capital of Los Angeles. Its employees were working tirelessly to develop a cure and look towards the recovery of Los Angeles behind the closed doors of the future. At least that was what the advertisements said... The grim reality of the situation was there was no effort being made towards recovery at all, no Superman perched to swoop to peoples' rescues. The concentration of Evok was being channeled towards fueling the issue: synthetic lead was being used as filtration into the potable water, the pre-packaged meals shipped to the homes were filled with harmful fats, and the mandatory government screenings of the legacy of the people seemed to go on and on and on... Behind the closed doors of Evok, however, the legacy seemed to dwindle ever slowly. The only imprint they would leave on the world was in the repeated stamps of their victim's hands as they granted them entry into hell - a prison full of security cameras, metal beds, and plastic syringes. The most unfortunate victim of the disease was a fresh adult, who seemed at the time to be only about 20 years of age, young for most victims. The fatality of the situation was evident as doctors rushed in with IV tubes and plastic bags to help stabilize the young man's condition. All that seemed to resonate with the young man was that he was rapidly losing consciousness and that the air smelled particularly sterile, like cleaning products and the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol. The doctor on the teenager's case seemed particularly distraught as he paced the linoleum tile back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. The virus had worked its way into the patient's internal system, and it was only a matter of time until his mother was giving her son's eulogy and not her graduation speech that she had originally planned. Dr. Hashimoto had to take action and fast. The only way to recover this man and secure his future and well-being was to approve radical measures to ensure the life of this case. It was at that time in the doctor's thoughts that he was interrupted by the sound of an opening door. A man with thinning gray hair and an identical lab coat to the man standing before him gave a beckoning gesture. "The Board will see you now." Hashimoto fought, throat raw from a scratchy voice that persisted to yell until his vocal chords were ripped apart by his desire and passion for medicine and saving lives. His knuckles and hands had been scratched to the surface by worn-and-torn nail beds that seemed to never have seen a manicure. The sound of a gavel finalized the decision. After a relentless battle between passion and pursuit, science and saving lives, dedication and detriment, the Board had come to a unanimous vote. The requested surgery had been denied. Tired and harrowed, Hashimoto walked out of the courtroom for the first time in a long while with shoulders hunched and head down staring at the dust bunnies that waltzed across the floor. It wasn't until he returned to work that afternoon, tired and yet restless, that Hashimoto made the defining decision of his career. The surgery would continue. So that Sunday afternoon, at exactly 12:39 P.M., the boy was lain, unconscious due to the after-effects of sleeping gas, on a metal bed and the surgery began. The suit fitted on the patient's body was the first unit to be fully battle-tested and patented by the War Board of the state of California. Metal sleeves laden with screws and ripples of blue light adorned his arms and his legs were coupled by steel boots with full-grip traction, thanks to narrow grooves in the heel and an adamantium chestplate that could withstand contact with a Russian missile. The man looked around, shocked, amazed, beholden by the faint red glow that seemed to float around him. And then, for the first time in a long while, he spoke. "Will somebody get me a joint?" Joint in hand, fire in his heart, and determination bred through the dim red light that radiated off his metal chest, the man was determined to conquer the city that had denied him the basic right to equality among the citizens that roamed the streets and the injustice that was being done to the patients of Evokex. The day the storm would pass over and bring with it the overwhelming sadness that seemed to consume the citizens of Los Angeles would be the day that the world would become a better and brighter place, filled with smoke and fire and the desire for the wrongdoings brought upon the innocent.